The Writings on the Stall
by Reno Spiegel
Summary: Elena makes some observations, and learns she's better off keeping her eyes to herself.


Author's Note: ...I'm on an AU spree. What can I say?  
  
Author's Note 2: Hurrah. I've kind of Version 2-ed this.  
  
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The Writings on the Stall  
  
by Reno Spiegel  
  
Dante@towernetwork.net  
  
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Reno liked to draw.  
  
Surprisingly, as some may have guessed, he didn't sketch crude drawings of big-titted stick figures with lipstick-smeared faces, nor inappropriate organs on the sides of schools. But he did doodle, particularly when he was in the Turk restroom, where he went to smoke every twenty minutes or so. He doodled on the walls, some on the side of the stalls, with a permanent black marker someone had left on the sink.  
  
Just useless little figures that left all for the imagination. Trees, squirrels, burning houses. The walls were nearly covered with his nonsense doodles. He paced, drew, paced, drew, all the while smoking a few cigarettes. And because they all shared a bathroom -- one with a yellowish lightbulb and pale tile walls, a rusted sink and a shit-stained toilet with both a condom and tampon dispenser -- his co-workers saw them as well.  
  
Particularly Elena. Tseng kept his mind on his "business" when in the bathroom, Rude didn't really pay any attention, but Elena was curious. More than that, she studied them and wondered what they meant.  
  
That was her first mistake.  
  
She decided to ask him about them sometime, after looking in his file -- she organized them, a job given to her by Tseng -- and finding a history of artistic talents. Even a few elaborate drawings were in the file, some that would make the greats flinch in envy.  
  
That was her second mistake.  
  
When the Turks were out to a black-suit anniversary dinner, in a very nice restaurant with that greasy smell, non-greasy food, and sleepy atmosphere, she actually did ask him about it.  
  
That was her final mistake.  
  
But don't skip ahead.  
  
It was the day Heideggar strolled into the Turk Lounge -- an old, almost-broken television sitting atop a cabinet with videos, anything from surveillance tapes to hardcore porn, across from a red, cotton-leaking couch sitting against a wall where the wallpaper peeled halfway down said wall -- that they knew something big was going down. Heideggar, or Mister Gyah Ha Ha, actually led the Turks but gave all physical action decisions -- not including orders from himself, gyah ha ha -- to Tseng.  
  
Punching the wall to get their attention, as if he didn't have it fully the moment his fat ass walked through the slim doorframe sideways, he cleared his throat and grinned at them from behind a bushy beard. "As I hope you all have marked down, next Tuesday will be the one-year landmark of Tseng here as your leader. As such, procedure is that you all go out for a nice, fancy dinner on the company. So, next Tuesday. The limo will pick you up at your respective, though not necessarily respectable, places of residence." Saluting, he shuffled out with a hoarse laugh and slammed the door behind him.  
  
Tseng had been filling out forms for his anniversary party with humiliating personal questions such as, "Do you have any hateful, previous spouses you would like removed from the party upon sight, dead or alive?" He shook his head and glanced at Reno and Rude, who were hunched over and watching their goldfish swim around in a drinking glass with no food. Each had a bet on how long it would live.  
  
The last bet had been called a disqualification. When Reno's deadline had come, he had zapped it with his mag-rod. When the fish was fried the next morning they all realized it because Reno had been holding the glass and was committed to the hospital by the secretary who came to find him spasming on the floor with minor-level burns.  
  
When Tseng muttered something like, "Why do we even listen to him?" Elena snapped from her daze and lowered her hands. She had been very close to clapping at the announcement of the milestone, then noticed no one seemed to care.  
  
And yet, in a week, they were all riding to the restaurant in their limo, at least three of them were. Packed enough, they thought it was good in such a small car, that Rude wasn't there. Elena queried about this.  
  
Reno, dressed up as if going to a funeral, smirked. He'd been bragging about how he'd actually tucked his shirt in for this thing all night, but it was obvious that something was on his mind. "Poor guy's claustrophobic. Bad. He'll be driving the biggest car in the lot. Hates company-issue vehicles."  
  
Lo and behold, when they got to the restaurant, there was a large car, nearly ten feet high, that took up two spots. The plates, lined by what appeared to be real barbed wire, were unmistakable: CUEBALL. Rude was leaning against the pillar outside the front door when they arrived, in all his six-six glory. He and Reno made them stop, slid their shades on at the same time, and each opened a door, holding them in bowed positions until the other two were in.  
  
Elena knew this just stunk of company ritual, because Reno cracked up and Rude just smiled when they were all inside. The maitre d' opened his mouth to speak. Reno mechanically, but with a bit of humor, cut him off, speaking very quickly. "Turk. Party of four. Table by the kitchen. Three waters, one whiskey. None of that two-fork bullshit. No salad, no bread. Everything on ShinRa's tab. And if you don't fold the napkins like little swans..." Reno put his hand to his temple in a gun shape and clicked his tongue. "Got it, Piérre or whoever the fuck you are?"  
  
The maitre d' didn't say a word, just hustled off. Reno looked expectantly behind him, shrugged, and walked toward the kitchen. Elena had assumed all places by the kitchens were reserved for low-level scum, but the kitchen here was actually open to the room so any diner could see anything going on inside of it. They literally cooked your steak right in front of you.  
  
Reno pulled a chair from a couple's table to their three-chair table, a waiter leading a party of three to the one they had just taken, and swerved to a different path without hesitation. The chair-burgled pair looked outraged for a moment, then hunched low to the table and started talking again, in excited whispers. The redhead sat down in the chair, three feet from the table, and put his feet up with a slam.  
  
Everyone flinched. No one looked.  
  
No more than five seconds after Reno had gotten settled, he huffed and stood up, walking to the kitchen window and opening it. The window was for waiters, asking where peoples' food was, but he didn't seem to catch onto this. He reached in and banged on the counter, then put his face against the glass and blew so his cheeks inflated.  
  
No one dared to laugh.  
  
Once he sat back down, he looked around and seemed to notice he was in public. He noticed how confused Elena seemed. "Moment you mention Turk, party of four, you're above the law in any restaurant, especially when it's all going on the company's tab. Let me explain." He picked up a glass from a neighboring table, seeing as how he was back so far, and threw it at the wall. It shattered. He looked at Tseng. "How much do they average for those glasses, dear captain?"  
  
Tseng played into it. "Seeing as how they're champaigne flutes, and crystal at that, I'd say roughly twenty gil a glass."  
  
"And how much will the company get charged for my breaking of said glass?" He rolled his arms at Tseng, like showing off a prize. It was painfully obvious that this was a planned thing, or else they had gone through this a few times.  
  
The oriental man chortled. "Not a gil."  
  
Reno looked ready to say something, but then the maitre d', sweating nervously, came over and put a swan-shaped napkin in front of each of them, also handing them their menus, and turning over the three waters and a whiskey. It wasn't hard to figure out what went to whom. They all ordered rather nicely, even Reno, though he ordered solely in French.  
  
Turns out the man's name was Piérre -- he had worked there the last three times the redhead had come -- so he understood well enough before half-walking, half-jogging off.  
  
Elena had concluded Tseng was the nice one, seeing as how Rude and Reno were purposely trying to make this hell -- Rude had tripped many waiters walking by -- but she was proven wrong when he cracked his knuckles and grinned across the table at his redheaded companion. "Reno. Tile floors in the bathroom." He shifted his eyebrows hintingly.  
  
A moment later, with their water and whiskey, he and Reno were running toward the neon Restroom sign. Rude sat in silence, making a tent out of his fingers and moving the tips up and down in front of his nose. Not only did he seem eerily fascinated, but he surprisingly broke the uneasy silence. "Don't mention the drawings."  
  
Elena jumped. Rude had just said something, not to mention something that had been on her mind all night. The waiter came with their steaks, quite fast, and then left, not so quickly this time. Between the two of them, they silently agreed they had seen relief in his eyes. But Elena didn't care about the relief. "How did you...?"  
  
He almost smiled. "House got hit by lightning one time and knocked out my antennae. Too lazy to go up on the roof, take it down, and buy another, so I just left it that way. Since then, it's been me and video tapes. Especially security videos."  
  
She didn't need to know more, but she still didn't stop him when he went on.  
  
"Those pictures you found are part of a life Reno prefers to be left alone. I know about it. Tseng knows about it. And we're the only two that ever need to. Remind him of it and he'll just be more aware that the past is always hanging onto his coattails. But," he said, holding his hands up and shaking his head. With what little visibility the blonde had through the man's sunglasses, she saw his eyes, lazily trained on her. "If you do ask, I won't stop you. That's all I can say."  
  
An unnerving pause followed in which Rude took his knife and fork up and began work on the steak, a very low-effort task. She didn't know what to say, and luckily she didn't have to. Reno and Tseng, appearing a bit wet in spots, were walking back toward the table, laughing and pantomiming someone slipping and falling. No secret what they'd done with their drinks.  
  
There was little talk over dinner, mostly glances between Rude and Elena and snickers between Tseng and Reno. But Elena had had enough, and she threw her fork down and leaned over to her briefcase, something Reno hadn't seen her bring with. Now he saw it and his face twisted, unsure of what was going on, but he put his utencils down gently, leaning back and eyeing her.  
  
Her face red, she was quite aware the other two were also staring at her. Still, after fumbling with the clasp, pulled open the briefcase and turned it to face him. On top was a drawing on plain notebook paper, but startlingly haunting. It was a man, looking much like him, with cold dead eyes in a standard blue suit. He was smiling gently, though his eyes told wicked, horribly stories. Underneath was the scrawled caption, "Master Tarshil XIV," in Reno's irreplicable handwriting.  
  
"What is this?"  
  
That was the question that was her final mistake of the night. Reno seemed transfixed by the picture for a moment, one he had drawn and slopped patels over just a year or so back. He gently reached out and thumbed through the other drawings, nearly fifteen in total, memories coming back with each sight.  
  
Then reality came back into view and he stood up suddenly, knocking his chair over. He appeared thoroughly shaken, something very uncharacteristic. He seemed to fumble for words, trembling just slightly, but then his features hardened once more. Picking up his glass, he turned and threw it so forcefully at the wall that his foot came off the ground. It shattered into too many pieces to even consider counting.  
  
He turned back at her and snarled loudly, almost dog-like, his eyes burning. At that moment, he wanted her dead and silent. "NOT A FUCKING GIL, ROOKIE!" he shouted. Turning, he shoved an old man over in his chair and weaved between tables toward the entrance. He knocked the maitre d', who was just seating a family, into the wall and slammed through the glass door, cracking it in a few places.  
  
Rude took a large swig of his water, grabbed his keys, and hurried out after him, muttering that he was soaked and it was too damn cold to be parading around in a fit like this. He apologized and helped the old man up on his way, then disappeared out the front door.  
  
The rookie, frightened now, almost forgot Tseng was there until he gently turned the suitcase to face him. It was still limp in her hands, but she turned it over so her commander could thumb through the pictures. She knew them all, each months apart as the date he had scratched in with a painted needle claimed. Master Tarshil I to Master Tarshil XV, which was just a line of red for the hair, then furious -- she assumed -- strokes across the whole paper.  
  
He sighed and rubbed his forehead, fingers working at his temples. He was trying to think what to do about this. "I knew I shouldn't have kept these lying around after Reno told me what they were..."  
  
Elena found her voice somewhere in a mix of fear and confusion. "And just what are they...Sir?" she asked hoarsely. She picked up her water and took a drink. Her throat had suddenly gone very dry. Making Reno mad hadn't been her intention.  
  
Tseng stared at the wall for a moment, then stood up and patted her on the shoulder, motioning for her to follow him. They appeared to be leaving, so she took her briefcase into her hand and followed. Ever the gentleman, her leader paid for the broken glasses on the way out and apologized for the intrusion, then walked out, crossed the parking lot, and got into the limousine.  
  
She hopped in after him, just in time to catch the tail end of his directions to the driver, which didn't help much, as it was just "--or." Nevertheless, the driver took off as quickly as she had the door closed, and they rode to their destination in a silence that included much brooding over how to fix her mess.  
  
When she finally was permitted to open the door, they had stopped in front of a giant house with flags flying over it, bearing the emblem of a fox clutching a snake in its jaws. Beneath that, in cursive, was the word "Tarshil." Tseng approached a large iron gate with the words "Tarshil Manor" atop it, and swiped an ID card through the sensor. The mechanical voice welcomed him as "Turk Captain."  
  
The gate swung open and Tseng walked across the lawn. Guard dogs sat obediently by the front doors, as if they knew their visitors, and Elena hurried to catch up with him, falling into stride beside him. Despite the calm look in the dogs' posture, it was obvious they could take a bullet and still get a deadly snap at one of their vitals. "Tseng... everything says Tarshil...is this...does he live here?"  
  
The Wutain nodded slowly and she noticed he was headed for a pillar with a wooden door. This whole place had a castle feel to it. Rude's truck was nowhere in sight, and it would be hard to disguise, so she thought they were safe from prying eyes. Her boss tapped the door twice, received no answer, and then pushed it open. She heard him mutter, to her, "He keeps dogs in here sometimes, and they don't care who the hell you are."  
  
She closed the door behind her, and looked as far around as she could. Just like something midievil, it appeared to be a stone, spiral staircase. The walls and stairs were cracked in places, but still looking like they would hold up for a good hundred years, and there were gas-burning torches lining the walls.  
  
Tseng started up, nodding at the framed pictures, large photographic headshots, as they passed. They each had a small plate beneath them with a title. Master Tarshil I was the first, a middle-aged man with shocking green eyes and the red hair she had seen in the drawing. Except Reno had made his eyes brown, maybe even black.  
  
With every story they went up -- she had seen this was huge from outside -- another picture came up. They had reached Master Tarshil X when they hit the top landing, and then there was a giant plaque-dotted board. Four spots were taken up with pictures, and a fifth looked like it had been attacked violently. Master Tarshil XI through XIV rested on this board. In the opposite corner, a timeline of pictures had been made.  
  
Between each picture of a Tarshil shaking hands with a ShinRa -- their portraits were everywhere, not a person in the business didn't know their faces -- was a photo of a coffin. A death date was beside each of those, another date, each a day after the funeral pictures, beside the other ones. They all had captions. Every other said the date a different Tarshil had died. A day after those was a joy-filled picture that said "Master Tarshil whomever Declared New Turk Captain." Each had handwriting a bit like the others, but not much.  
  
History had ben put here as it took place. Elena didn't need to ask who Master Tarshil XV was going to be. XIV was too recent to not be Reno's father, a great family man and Turk as the files said. Reno's painting of him had been more-detailed than the others, out of affection.  
  
His death date was a year ago.  
  
A year ago yesterday.  
  
Tseng spoke softly, carefully, as if fourteen generations of Master Tarshils were listening to him. "Every time a captain dies or goes missing, three people sign up to become the next one. The two who don't make it are made Turks, but never captains. Two captains ago, it was Reno Tarshil XIII, Vincent Valentine, and my grandfather, Tseng Yusikii IV. Last captain, Reno Tarshil XIV, James Rudolph III, and my father, Tseng Yusikii V. But the Reno you know started training too late in life.  
  
"Though his father, grandfather, and everyone since the beginning of the Turks had been a captain, Reno didn't make it. This family started the Turks, actually. Tarshil Turks they had started as, his umpteenth-great-grandfather and his two brothers. But last year, when myself, a sixth-generation Yusikii, a fourth-generation Rudolph, and Reno, the fifteenth-generation Tarshil signed up..."  
  
Elena understood. "They took you..."  
  
Tseng nodded. "Reno had always loved his family. Still does, really, just considers himself a failure and doesn't speak of them. He thinks they're looking down on him in disgust. I couldn't turn down the decision, either. He threatened that if I did, it would be a priss way for him to be captain, and he didn't want that. Day I got sworn in as captain, though..." Tseng rolled up his sleeve, and Elena gasped at what she saw.  
  
A knife-wound.  
  
Tseng smiled faintly. "He attacked me, saying I was a disgrace to the team and his ancestors would condemn me to the fiery depths. He got in that stab and then punched me around until he collapsed crying, then disappeared for a month straight. I demanded the company not take legal action. Funny. My first order as Turk captain was to pardon my employee who'd just stabbed me in the bicep.  
  
"For the past year, Reno's been in anger management, depression therapy, Alcohol Awareness countless times, and on medications for depression. Tried to kill himself. Didn't work, of course. Forgot you needed to shut the window before you try to gas yourself." He smiled a bit, but shook his head. "That's why his art fell off. His hands got too shaky, he started doing drugs, and he got unfocused. That Reno Tarshil XIV in your case would be worth a fortune. Anything after that would be worthy of a preschool lunchbox design."  
  
Elena shook her head suddenly. "But...can't a son or something of his be a captain? That'd solve it, wouldn't it?"  
  
Tseng sighed, but kept his smile. "Reno...he's sterile.There'll never be another generation of Tarshil after him. His mother died giving birth, and his father refused to remarry. He was an only child. No chance of keeping the family name going. From now on, power will probably switch between the Yusikii and Rudolph names, unless some real prodigy gets taken on as our third next year." His voice sounded like he had something silent to say.  
  
The blonde knew what he meant. As a captain, he would have to know the files as well as she. He was obviously talking about the daughter she had, though the girl was living with her father in Elena's birthplace of Costa del Sol. She was going to go see the little girl again next month.  
  
Work was just too hectic to spend time with her "family."  
  
But the Wutain didn't press. "Reno's kind of grown to accept that, I think, but...tonight, I think you just reminded him --"  
  
"-- that the past is always hanging onto his coattails," Elena cut him off softly, gazing round at the plaques. Tseng cracked a grin over this, patted her on the shoulder, and started down the stairs. He called back that he would be waiting when she was ready.  
  
Elena stepped forward slowly, and ran her fingers over the plaque of Reno's father. A beautiful man, a bit better looking than his son. He had faint sideburns and his hair was tied back, same as the Reno she knew. His eyes were aqua, a sea color, and he smiled with thin lips and straight teeth. The whole family seemed this way.  
  
She shook her head and walked back down the steps, ready to go back home. She saluted each Tarshil on her way down, knowing that after tonight, she would never look at the Reno she thought she'd know the same way.  
  
The next morning at work, Rude reported that Reno had been long gone when he had walked outside. Two weeks later, the man himself walked into work, sat down on the couch, and turned the television on.  
  
No one asked about his bloody white undershirt, the caked dirt on his face, or the many scratches on his forearms that looked like they'd been left by bushes. They just all accepted that he would come around in his own time, and soon thereafter, everything would fall back into its original place.  
  
He sat there, watching the twenty-four hour news all through the day, without a word. He moved only for the restroom, where he drew just a bit better today, and he stayed long after the building had closed to the public. Around one the next morning, he stood up, hearing the various pops and groans from his joints.  
  
Throwing on his coat, he sniffed to himself and walked out without turning the television off, brushing the dry dirt off of his shirt and onto the nice company carpet. He left the building and looked at the stars, tonight very clear.  
  
Every man in his family smiled down on him, and with a salute, he smiled back. Reno shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking, this time with a purpose.  
  
"Time to pay a visit to my old easel," he murmured. "Tseng ain't gonna fucking paint himself."  
  
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-Fin 


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